“My house, my rules,” my daughter-in-law said as she took back the spare key, expecting me to stay with the children while she and my son went away for the weekend.

and listened to their accounts of soccer and classroom projects. Claire seemed relieved each time she got home and thanked me for taking something off her list. I believed we were all working toward the same end: a new child-care plan.

One Thursday she arrived after nine. Daniel was at a client dinner, the children were asleep, and I

read at the kitchen island. She set down her briefcase and sat still wearing her coat. I poured her decaf tea.

“I’m terrified I’ll drop the ball,” she said. “If I stay late, I feel like a bad mother. If I leave, they’ll think I can’t handle this promotion.”

I squeezed her hand. I’d known a version of that fear when Daniel was little and I worked part-time. I told her the children were doing well and that she deserved time to adjust. She smiled through a few tears. It